The Dance
by Cee5
Summary: Sherlock leaves John's wedding early, but there's someone who always sees him when he is looking sad. Molly Hooper follows him and Sherlock Holmes has his dance after all.


_This is my 'I should be writing an update for my Sherlolly multichapter fic but I've been listening to Ed Sheeran's latest song on replay all day and this sort of happened' fic. I hope you enjoy it.__  
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_This story takes place during series three, between the wedding in 'The Sign Of The Three' and the tarmac scene from 'His Last Vow.'_

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><p>Sherlock picked up the paper with the waltz he had written to John and Mary and it felt heavier than its size would suppose. For a moment he knew he was all alone, and he allowed the feeling to set in. This was how he dealt with it all: let it sink, bite, until it can't do any more damage. 'Alone is what I have,' he thought, 'Alone protects me.' And he had never believed the words as much as in this moment.<p>

Molly was dancing with Tom and Mrs. Hudson was giggling and telling one of her stories, making Tom laugh. Molly saw Sherlock. She saw as he spun in the middle of the dance floor, looking for someone to hold on to, for a friendly face that would rescue him, someone that would make him fit in, now that John had turned his back. And now he was leaving. No one had noticed except her, but Sherlock was leaving his best friend's wedding.

She couldn't leave Tom, though. She was his date, his fiancée. It wouldn't be right. She ignored Sherlock's moving figure, stepping across the threshold, feeling a twinge of guilt as she saw him disappearing behind the crowd.

"I'm sorry," she raised her voice over the sound of the music, touching Tom's arm to get his attention, "I have to go."

She didn't wait for Tom's answer, the confused look on his face making it clear he hadn't noticed anything odd. Why would he? Why would anyone? Only Molly's eyes followed Sherlock across the ball room. Only Molly's eyes followed Sherlock everywhere.

She hurried her step, avoiding the people that were dancing around her, and made her way outside. She spotted Sherlock straight away, buttoning his coat, pulling his collar up, pacing steadily, getting away.

Molly's dress fluttered behind her as she ran towards him and she called out Sherlock's name. Not too loud, just enough to make him stop and turn around. He seemed surprised to see her and he frowned, taking a step in her direction now.

"Molly," her name always sounded like an affirmation on his lips, "Is everything alright?"

Molly nodded, "It's still early. I saw you leaving," she explained.

Sherlock lifted his chin for a second, realising why she had followed him, and he pursed his lips, a small smile, "Yes. I'm heading home," and he looked at his feet, "Tom is probably waiting for you inside. You should go dance, Molly Hooper."

Sherlock was ready to turn around again, but Molly spoke, "You haven't danced yet."

Sherlock faced her for a second, gauging the meaning of her words, "No," he said, "I haven't danced yet."

Molly was nervous. She could feel her legs start to shake, and she took a quick glance behind herself, looking at the ball room for a minute. Her hands were behind her back, inadvertently mirroring Sherlock's posture. She swallowed and took a deep breath, extending a hand in front of herself. "Shall we, then?"

She hated that her voice shook when she asked, but she did not regret asking. Sherlock gazed at her for a second, taken aback by the request. He could hear the music still playing in the distance, changing without ever coming to a halt. He shrugged. It was a beautiful night, and Molly Hooper was inviting him to dance. Why not?

He took Molly's hand in his and he stepped forward, two steps exactly. His fingers slithered over Molly's until their hands were set in the right position, and he took his other hand to her waist, placing it there softly.

"Wait," Molly asked and taking advantage of the way Sherlock was steadying her, she removed her shoes, "These are killing me. I think I have about three blisters in each of my fingers, I can't wait to get home and get some cold water on them," Molly shut up, realising that she was starting to ramble, but Sherlock was looking at her with endearment.

"We're not very good at keeping casual conversation, are we?" he inquired and Molly laughed, throwing her shoes to the ground.

"No, I don't think we are," and she laughed again, the sound of her laughter making Sherlock's throat seem like it was closing up.

Molly looked up at him more seriously, and put her right hand on his arm, feeling the texture of his coat on her fingertips, trying to take every second of this moment in. He smelled of mint and aftershave and nicotine. He started to spin her around, slowly, in rhythm with the song.

Sherlock was a dexterous dancer, and Molly didn't even have to think about what she was doing. He was guiding and she followed. The music shifted, but Sherlock continued all the same, slower now. His cheek was almost touching Molly's hair, and he inhaled, taking her scent in. It was familiar and it made his heart twinge. He blinked a few times. Molly's hand was so small in his, so delicate. She was breathing into his neck, and when Sherlock peaked at her, her eyes were closed.

As if sensing that he was observing her, Molly opened her eyes and stared straight into his. And in that moment, they both knew. They were the outcasts. The forgotten ones. The ones who couldn't keep up a conversation without offending someone or saying something inappropriate. The ones with a special liking for morbidity, who had chosen death over life to occupy their days. They were a different side of the same coin.

Molly's hairs prickled up as Sherlock's hand, placed on her waist, trailed the fabric of her dress, and then over the skin of her arm, making its way to her neck to end up resting gently on her face. He took her in, like an interesting subject, and that was for Molly the biggest compliment. She held him by the nape of his neck, and he answered to her touch, moving to kiss her.

"Molly!"

Lestrade's voice came from the front door of the ball room and Sherlock stopped, squeezing Molly's hand instinctively, the engagement ring scratching the skin of his fingers. He stepped away, letting her go, Molly's hand falling down to her side.

"You should go," Sherlock said, "Tom will be wondering where you are."

Molly's jaw clenched at the words, and she looked down.

"Thank you for the dance," Sherlock added, and he walked away, without looking back.

Molly saw him disappearing at the gates and then she put on her shoes. She turned around, and Lestrade was still waiting for her, holding two drinks. He didn't ask her anything. He nodded and Molly nodded back, a silent agreement to keep a secret that none of them was sure to understand.

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><p>Molly was working at the labs when Sherlock walked in. Not with his usual confident strut, but almost shy, almost unsure. Molly looked briefly at him, but she didn't stop what she was doing. Sherlock stopped by her side, waiting.<p>

"What do you want?" she asked, harsh.

Sherlock tilted his head. She was still mad at him.

"You will not believe it if I tell you it was actually for a case."

"Who's Janine?" she asked, ignoring his words.

Sherlock frowned. How she had come to know this, he had no idea.

Molly seemed to read his mind. "John texted Lestrade, saying you were dating Janine now and Lestrade texted me, saying… well, that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"She's part of my plan. Just like the drugs."

Molly scoffed, turning to face him.

"Sherlock, I know how Lestrade met you. I know what you used to do. And I would appreciate if you didn't lie to me."

"I'm not lying to you," he made sure to look her straight in the eye whilst saying this, "I'm not."

Molly took two seconds to process this.

"So you are not back on drugs."

Sherlock shook his head, "No. Promise."

"Why do you care?" she asked.

"Why do I care about what?"

"About what I think about you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, "I need your help."

It was Molly's turn to roll her eyes, "Of course you do, why else would you come here for."

Sherlock ignored the snide comment.

"What do you need me for?" Molly inquired.

"I need your help to find a nice engagement ring."

The beaker Molly was holding fell to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. Luckily, it was still empty and Molly hurried to clean it all up, Sherlock standing awkwardly there.

"I still have my engagement ring, if that interests you," she refused to look at him; she hated this half told story.

"Oh," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows, pleased, "That may be actually perfect, you and Janine might just be the same size."

"How wonderful," Molly said, and then she finally faced him, throwing the pieces of broken glass into the garbage, "The ring may be cursed, though. Didn't work too well for me."

Sherlock smiled, "That may actually come in handy, honestly."

And Molly finally realised that Sherlock had been telling the truth all along.

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><p>"Let me in, please."<p>

Sherlock's voice was weak, and despite the dark hall Molly could see he was in pain. She was just getting ready to see him at the hospital, but she made way to let him into her house. Sherlock sat down on a chair, and looked at her.

"I need your help."

He rushed the story, telling the facts that mattered, explaining her role in it all. Then, while she called Lestrade, explaining him that Sherlock needed his help at Leinster Gardens, he left to fetch John.

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><p>"I am sure it will be fine," Molly mocked, as Sherlock removed his goggles and gloves.<p>

"Very funny, nothing better than spending Christmas at my parents," he answered. Then he was serious again, "I have a plan, Molly."

It was the way the words were uttered that caught Molly's attention. Sherlock was concerned. He didn't tell her why, but when Molly put her lab coat in her locker before going home, there were two boxes in it. One was her engagement ring, returned. The other was wrapped and Molly opened it, tearing the wrapping paper. Inside was a pair of new shoes and a card: 'For the next dance.'

Molly held the shoes at heart's length, smiling. Then, she put on her new shoes and walked home.

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><p>They allowed him to stay under Mycroft's protection whilst his future was dictated. The story had been hushed as much as possible, but Sherlock had killed a man, and he would have to answer for it.<p>

Mycroft guided Molly to the room Sherlock was now occupying, and the first imagine she saw when she entered it was that of Sherlock, legs folded, sitting by the window on a chair that seemed too small for him. He looked at her when she stepped in, and his eyes lingered on her feet for a second. He smiled.

Mycroft closed the door and Molly removed her coat, approaching the window. Sherlock motioned with his hand in the direction of another chair and Molly sat in front of him.

"What's going to happen?"

Sherlock had decided that it was best to be merciful. So he lied, "My brother convinced them to send me on an undercover job in Eastern Europe."

Molly frowned and the realisation hit her, "You're not coming back," It was a whisper, an affirmation and she clutched her coat tighter in her hands.

It surprised Sherlock that she knew, that she had seen beyond the veil of lies he was about to present to her. He didn't deny it. Molly was in front of him, trying not to cry.

"They look good on you," Sherlock said, pointing at her shoes, because he was afraid that if he continued to talk about what was about to happen, Molly might not be the only one crying.

Molly nodded, and then there was a knock at the door. Mycroft walked in.

"It's time," he said.

Sherlock got up, and the door was closed again. Molly mimicked him and Sherlock took a step to shorten the distance between the two. He didn't wait this time, didn't waste any time because he knew he didn't have it. He held Molly's waist and he kissed her. Lips against lips, warm, electrifying.

"I'm sorry we can't have another dance," Sherlock looked at her for a second more, then he opened the door and walked away.

Molly stood there for a while; then, someone came to fetch her; Mycroft arranged a car to take her home.

She sat on the sofa, feeling numb. Sometimes it's better to lose the things we have never possessed. Sometimes it's better to leave dances unfinished and kisses undelivered. Sometimes it's better the total despair of the impossible than the glimpse of what could have been.

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><p>It was Lestrade who called her first and Molly ran down the stairs and into the street. She felt like flying. She was light and she giggled, and the taxi wasn't driving fast enough. She knocked on the door and Mrs. Hudson opened it and the house was full. John and Mary were there, Lestrade, and Mycroft, too. There was business going on already and Sherlock was staring at his wall, sticking things there, talking out loud at fast speed, checking his watch. He recognised Molly's footsteps, and he turned around. Molly stopped at the entrance of the flat, staring. Sherlock looked around and everyone scattered around, pretending not to pay attention, looking at more papers that Mycroft was presenting whilst still on the phone, gathering information.<p>

Sherlock stepped in her direction, taking her to the hall with him.

"Moriarty's back," he said.

Molly nodded. "I know, Lestrade told me everything on the phone, they want you back in London," there was hope in her voice, satisfaction.

Sherlock nodded and then stared at the door of the flat again, making sure everyone was busy with Mycroft. Then, he held Molly's hand and spun her around once, pulling her to him.

"I'm afraid that's all I have time for right now," he said, "But there's something I'd like to ask you." He took a deep breath, "Molly Hooper, would you like to…"

"Solve this case?"

"…have dinner?"

"Oh," Molly was taken aback for a second, but then she smiled, "Of course. Of course I'd like to have dinner."

Sherlock kissed her on the forehead, and then he entered the room again, but Molly spoke again, "There's just one thing, though."

Sherlock turned around. Molly had a wicked grin on her face.

"I know where to find Moriarty," she said.

"Where?"

"Right here."

She pulled a gun from her purse and aimed. The bullet lodged itself on Sherlock's brain, killing him instantly.

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><p>Sherlock woke up with a scream, lunging forward and Molly woke up as well. She was already awake when Sherlock tried to grab her arms, stepping out of his reach.<p>

"It's alright. Here, drink this," she offered.

But Sherlock was now with his back pressed against the frame of the bed, staring at her, one hand in his forehead, right in the place the bullet in his dream had perforated.

"Sherlock ,what is it?"

She was wearing one of his pyjamas, and Sherlock heard someone asking if everything was alright on the other side of the closed door. Molly answered for him, assuring everything was okay.

Sherlock tried to make some sense of it all, pieces of last night coming to him in a rapid succession. Plans to find out where Moriarty could be hiding, Mycroft demanding that everyone needed to rest and continue the next day, Sherlock taking Molly surreptitiously to his room, Molly moaning his name in a whisper, her pale naked body under his in the dim light. Intertwined together, whispering words of affection until they both fell asleep. Then, the nightmare.

"It was you." Sherlock affirmed.

Molly was staring at him, frowning.

"You brought him back. So that I could return."

Molly put the glass of water she was holding down. Then, she sat on his bed, looking at her hands for a moment, and then she stared back at him.

"It's a lie," she admitted, "I couldn't let you die."

Sherlock took in her words, "Molly, but if everything is a lie, they'll send me back."

"No, they won't," she insisted, "They don't need to know it is a lie. You have a case to solve, don't you?"

Sherlock stared at her, "Mary," he affirmed.

Molly nodded, "Mary," she then reached out to grab Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock let the feeling of dread subside and then he interlaced his fingers with Molly's.

"I think I might have slightly underestimated you," he said.

Molly smiled and then she got on her knees and came closer to him, sitting on his lap. She brushed the curls on his forehead to the side, "I think you might have, yes."

And she curled against his chest. She doesn't know yet how this will end, but for now, she still has him. There's still time for another dance.


End file.
